


even blacker than the white of the snow

by jbbames (artifice)



Series: put me in the dirt, let me be with the stars [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Cheating, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Some Humor, Unresolved Emotional Tension, pianist Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 17:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19931755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artifice/pseuds/jbbames
Summary: Bucky stares at his drink and feels a familiar bubble of panic at the bottom of his stomach. What is he gonna sing about, other than his life upending in a fucking train wreck because of some piece-of-shit cheater?





	even blacker than the white of the snow

**Author's Note:**

> heed tags, there's some brief mentions of potentially triggering stuff.
> 
> [series playlist here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6dD3nFHjQtq0HVoRPxbYFs?si=U-IHMVdEQcKP1q5e6kCWoQ)

_August 21, 2013_

Brock fucked him up.

Plain and simple. There, out in the open, wouldn’t Steve be happy? If Steve gave a shit, which he fucking _doesn’t_ , because literally nobody gives an actual shit about him anymore. The last person who might have given a flying fuck about him was a two-timing piece of— whatever. That’s a wrap on that.

It’s been a year since _Cold_ dropped, but it’s picked up a crazy amount of traction since then. Brock couldn’t handle it—and isn’t that fucking hilarious? _Brock_ couldn’t handle it? Imagine how Bucky feels, what the fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It’s—he checks his phone— 4:32 AM. On a Wednesday. Which means nobody’s fucking awake when he needs them.

(Not that he was around when people. Steve. Needed him. Whatever. It’s all fucked there anyways. _Cold_ changed everything.)

He’s so fucking drunk, man. But not even the _fun_ kind of drunk. He’s just, he’s nauseous, he’s fucking, he’s fucked up, _Brock fucked him up_. And he can’t sleep. And Gabe wants him to meet Raury tomorrow. Today? Shit.

If he hadn’t been so focused on music or whatever, Brock would have stuck around, and he’d be fucking unconscious now after a round or two of getting his ass pummeled to hell and beyond. He’s so fucking tired. He just wants. Wants.

Wants

-

11:57 AM

August 21, 2013

**Salt and Stevia** 🤧

Voicemail

**Salt and Stevia** 🤧

Missed call (2)

**Nat**

In touch with a few people. Brock’s being a shit onl…

-

“Hey, Buck..y. Bucky. Uhh, it’s me. I know it’s been a few months and— just. Listen, Nat’s gonna try and sue for libel. Brock shouldn’t have done what he did, and then to spin it back on you, I’m just so, _so_ — anyways. I, uhm. Just. I don’t know, man. Please call me back. Let’s meet up or something. I miss you. And, uh, I’m still. I’m still proud of you, okay? I still car—”

-

Raury is chill as fuck. Bucky’s kind of got a hard-on for his voice. It’s all smooth, like. Butter, or something. Warm butter. Over crunchy popcorn. Or over those cans of Green Giant corn niblets that Steve likes to eat when he’s lazy and doesn’t wanna cook and _not the fucking time_

“— Barnes? Dude, you okay?”

Bucky blinks. He’s sitting in a Starbucks somewhere in LA, wherever Gabe dragged him, wearing the most inconspicuous clothes he owns, because fame is nice and all, but being recognized sucks ass.

“Yeah, man. What were we..?”

It’s a great thing Raury is so chill. Jesus. Small blessings. “Was just saying I’d be down for a feature, dude. The mixtape thing is a good idea; gets your foot in the door for a few people.”

“Sounds great,” Bucky smiles, and for the first time in ages, it doesn’t feel strained.

Though the worried crease on his brow remains, Gabe seems pleased. “When are you free to come in the studio?”

Bucky zones out again as they hash out details. He stares at his drink (grande black drip that tastes like burnt rubber) and feels a familiar bubble of panic at the bottom of his stomach. He needs to come up with. Music. Lyrics. Some theme. Fuck. What is he gonna sing about, other than his life upending in a fucking train wreck because of some piece-of-shit cheater? His arm? Funny.

He hasn’t tried writing music since he— since Steve— since—

“See you Tuesday, then,” Gabe’s voice cuts through his thoughts. He sees himself smile again and wave goodbye as Raury takes his leave. It’s weird. Everything’s all fucking weird. Everything’s all _fucked_ , is what everything is.

Gabe looks like he wants to say something, or maybe he’s gonna offer pity, or. Or something. Whatever it is, Bucky is most decidedly _not_ about doing anything for the rest of the day other than wallowing in his own misery. He’ll wax poetry later. He always does. Did. When Steve was there. Brock kinda hella sucked the inspiration out of his bones. He hears himself make up a flimsy excuse, promises to see the band tomorrow for brainstorming and practice and—

His phone rings. Perfect timing, whoever the fuck is calling. The universe might be giving him a fucking break, finally.

“Barnes,” he says, without looking at his caller ID, and he ducks out of the building, glad to be seeing in first person again.

“Bucky? Jesus, Bucky,”

Oh, _hell_ no. Steve is the last person he wants to be talking to now.

He hangs up.

-

Monty’s humming a thing under his breath and plucking away at his guitar when Bucky gets to the studio on Monday.

“F sharp minor,” he says, “and what I’m thinking would sound neat on the piano. Fuck with the sound, throw in effects, make it a little bell-y, chime-y like, you feel?”

Bucky sets his bag down and sits at the electric keyboard, feeling more like himself than he has in nearly a week. Breaking up with somebody does that to a guy, he guesses.

(Still not the same after the arm, though. Fuck. He’d give anything to play his old repertoire. State of the art prosthetic from Stark, and it still can’t play Chopin. _Fuck_. Mind back on track, Barnes.)

“What is that,” he jabs at a few keys before landing on B4. Hah. Before. B4. G#4. A4. F#4. Hm.

Huh.

Monty might be onto something.

“Yeah, yeah,” Monty says. “Throw, like, a slow swing in the back or something. Like, sexy? Sultry?”

Sometime between him sitting at the piano and thinking about the tune, Timothy “DumDum” quiet-for-a-big-guy Dugan had come in, so Bucky is scared as shit when the sound of a ride cymbal echoes through his skull.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

DumDum beams at him over the hi-hat. “Not quite.”

-

_February 12, 2014_

They want him to do something for the Spiderman. What.

“You’re kidding,” he says over the phone when Nat spills the beans. “You’re fucking with me.”

Nat’s voice is as dry as ever. “I’m your agent, Bucky, I kid you not.”

“But for _Spiderman_? They want _us_?”

“It’s yes or no, kid.”

“The fuck, Nat? Yes, of course we’ll do it.”

-

_April 22, 2014_

This new song is called _Want_ , and it’s probably the sexiest thing the band has ever come up with. It hurts a little, though. He didn’t expect it to. Brock’s _still_ fucking with him, nearly a year later.

But he can’t deny that the song just. He doesn’t know. Radiates visceral sex, or like. Something. It’s how he imagines Brock felt during their “relationship”. Surprisingly enough, it was easy to channel his inner Douchecanoe™ into a song. He decides not to think about what that says about him.

He puts it up on SoundCloud and prays for good reception. This upcoming mixtape’s gonna be fucking sick, he can feel it.

(See, Steve? He doesn’t need you to help write lyrics and come up with ideas. The Commandos are doing just fine on their own.)

-

_“I’ll fucking digest you, one kiss at a time; you wish I was yours, and I hope that you’re mine.”_

-

9:21 PM

April 22, 2014

**Steve Rogers**

Voicemail

**Steve Rogers**

Missed call (1)

-

“Hi, hey. It’s me. I heard the new thing. Just wanna say congrats, and I’m proud of you, and I…. well. Uh. I don’t know. Congratulations again, Bucky. Your writing has improved a lot. Uhm. Right. That’s it from me, I guess. Offer still stands to meet up anytime. Ma’s here, says she misses seeing your ugly mug. Not that I— ah. Alright. I. Bye.”

-

_May 2, 2014_

Spiderman is a fucking mess, good Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck, what the _fuck_

-

_May 6, 2014_

“Sure, no problem, I'll do it. I'm at the studio right now, so I'll just do a little intro, I guess? Fuck, dude, I'm nervous, I've never done like an intro like that. I don't wanna sound like a fuckin', like, idiot, y’know—?”

“Nah, you gon' sound cool, just swag it out like: ‘Hey, this Barnes— hey, this Barnes from The Commandos, and we 'bout to cover "Me & My Bitch" from YG, too...’ Say it how you would, like, say it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay! Okay.”

“That ain't nothin', you got that shit, you. You swagged out, man.”

“Alright, yo, hit me when you get back to California.”

“Yep, I got you.”

“Cool, peace.”

-

_May 7, 2014_

Steve would lose his shit if he thought Bucky meant of these lyrics. He kind of means them (wouldn’t cover the song if he didn’t, right?), but he’s pretty sure it’s not too obvious. Kind of sure. Maybe.

He wishes he could stop fucking thinking about Steve. Load of good that ever did him. Shit.

-

_November 18, 2014_

Brock cheated on him again. Again! As if Bucky had just. As if he hadn’t— as _FUCKING_ if. God. Bucky is so, _fucking_ — pissed off.

“What’d I tell you, man,” Gabe says over the phone. “What’d he do! Got you twice, is what he did. Shit, I’m sorry.”

Bucky wants to scream. “I hear a fucking ‘but’ in there somewhere, asshole.”

“But,” the guitarist enunciates. “But, I don’t know. I don’t know—what do you want me to say? That I knew he was gonna cheat again? You knew he was gonna cheat. _You_ fucking knew, and I didn’t say nothin’ because you deserve any and every _modicum_ of happiness you can scavenge, but you knew this was going to happen and you _still_ stayed. I don’t know how to help you.”

“Dude, that is—so—! Not what I want to hear right now.”

“ _You_ called _me_ because you wanted no bullshit. Get your bitches in line and make up with Steve already, Christ.”

Bucky does, actually, scream this time. “ _I am not talking to Steve_ ,” he hisses after he can breathe again.

Gabe hangs up on him in response.

(He heads to the studio bright and early the next morning to rework the lyrics on their collaboration with Karim.)

(#foolmetwice goes trending two days later.)

-

_I’m not your bitch_ , Brock tweets.

_No, yeah, you’re a piece of shit_ , Dumdum replies. 

-

_November 27, 2014_

Black and White is dropping in an hour, and Bucky just feels numb. And loopy. Weed does wonders.

(God, his interview a few days ago? A complete, like. Mess.)

Obviously, he’s proud, he guesses. Objectively. He’s put all his relationship angst into this mixtape, some of it literally (peep the Brock voicemail clip… too late to change it now though), and it’s like a cathartic goodbye to the relationship that had him reaching for narcotics all the time. All things considered, he’s a little surprised he hasn’t kicked the bucket and overdosed yet.

He thinks he would welcome overdosing.

-

8:03 PM

November 27, 2014

**Steve Rogers**

Best of luck tonight!

-

_November 29, 2014_

Bucky sits at the grand piano in his apartment—a Yamaha S4— with his hands on his lap. He’s so sober it hurts, but he trying to— slow down. Make it a point to not be high first thing in the morning. _And_ he needs to distract himself from the mixtape’s attention. Bringing his arms up, he notices his flesh one shaking, while his metal one sits coldly atop the keys. In front of him is his Beethoven’s Sonatas Band I book, flipped open to the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata.

His left hand feels. Clunkier than usual. It’s fine, it’s fine—the first movement is _adagio sostenuto,_ anyways. Still, he misses feeling. Delicate. No, that’s not quite right. He misses being able to make music sound delicate. It sounds awful right now. Too heavy, too passionate, and too loud where the whole piece is supposed to be restrained and somber. Rock and hip hop and RnB are all well and good, but.

But.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until black and white fade into each other, and he stops midway through the development section, pulling his hands away from the keyboard as if burnt and clutching them against his chest. He just—

his _arm—_

He can’t even play one of Beethoven’s most overrated pieces. Oh, God. What is he _even_ , right now? He wants to smoke. He wants to—to get out of his head. Something. He played all three movements with relative ease, at one point. He loved performing this. He fucking— _adored_ being able to play the third movement and have fun with it and he can’t remember the last time he was fucking happy playing this goddamn stupid, stupid, _stupid_ instrument that he loves so much he’s _crying_ because _God_ he _loves_ the piano and this is _killing him_.

With another pitiful sob, he tears himself away from the bench.

**Author's Note:**

> fuck it i love it hey bucky run up the budget ! *static sounds* u can talk to me on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/artificiaIis)


End file.
